Seven Deadly Sins
by MrsRegulusBlack123
Summary: A look inside the heads of the Varia's seven officers


**Hi there! So I've been meaning to write this for like months... and I was randomly hit with inspiration this morning so... *drum roll* (Ironic how this always happens two days before exams start XD). Anyways, it was supposed to be about the Varia and the sins they represent... but it kinda didn't turn out that way, there's still hints though!**

**Warnings: Bel being a sadistic lunatic, and Xanxus swearing... a lot. Not sure if this should be under the 'warning' section, but for all you fem!Mammon haters, Mammon's a girl in this fic**

**Disclaimer: I don't own KHR XD Bel would be the main character if I did, so yeah...**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Mammon**

Mammon loved collecting money, she loved sitting in her room at night, silently counting that money. She loved the feeling of paper bills against her fingertips. The Varia knew it, and her fellow arcobaleno knew it as well.

Time was money.

Every second worked, was a penny earned.

Because it was money that kept the world spinning.

Those were Mammon's personal opinions, and it was thanks to them that she was now the proud holder of the 'Number one richest mafioso worldwide' ranking in Fuuta's ranking book. But even like that, she was not satisfied.

What she got from missions and charging her teammates wasn't enough. She wanted more. More. More. More. No matter how much she gathered, it never seemed to be enough.

And when that green-haired kid that had replaced her during the while she was 'dead' asked her why that was, she had just shrugged. She said she was collecting it so that when she died and was reborn, she'd still have her money. Because humans repeated their lives in endless cycles. He stared at her blankly for a while, just as he always seemed to do, and left.

But what she told him wasn't quite true, was it?

Yes, Mammon did love money. And she had always liked to be careful with it. But now, ever since she had gained the pitiful form of an infant, everything revolved around money.

She tried to gather as much as she could. Just gather. Gather. Gather. Steal. Gain. More. More. And more. She would regularly check her bank accounts, scattered all over the globe, smiling only when she saw the numbers had gone up a bit.

Truth was, she hated this tiny form of hers. Mammon hated being a baby. She couldn't do anything properly anymore.

To open a door, she had to use Phantasma's aid. Walking long distances was tiring with her tiny feet, so she allowed Belphegor to carry her. She could no longer eat spicy food, because she ended up choking on it. Her cheeks were all puffy and she was overall chubby. There was nothing scary about a baby. And she hated it.

In her current form, she was pathetically weak. She might never exactly have been the strongest woman around, but she could still lift stuff that wasn't ridiculously heavy. Now it required a lot of effort just to carry five books... not to mention, she couldn't even look over them all with how small she was. She was an assassin, yet there was nothing intimidating about her. And that wasn't how it was supposed to be.

There was a time when she could stand over people and look at the fear in their eyes. Feel her dominance over them. Now she was an overgrown child's teddy bear (Belphegor _really_ needed to grow out of that habit, SOON) and the babysitter of a kid that could do with looking up the word 'respect' in a dictionary. Where was the dignity in that?

But money made her feel better. Because whoever had it, had power. With it, she had at least _some _form of power. Power she desired when she was in this despicable form. And when one day she succeeded in getting rid of the curse, she would really be powerful.

Bel wouldn't get to call her a baby anymore. He wouldn't pinch her cheeks and try to force her in a high chair when they were out eating at restaurants.

Fran would have to quit poking her cheeks while she was trying to drink strawberry milk in order to see if Bel's claims about them being puffy were real.

Lussuria wouldn't try to fit her in cute pink clothes.

When she got her true form back, all of them would stop looking down on her, and she'd finally get the respect she was due.

* * *

**Squalo**

"VOOOOOOIIIII! Is that all you've got, you scum?!" The silver-haired swordsman shouted out into the night, baring his teeth at his opponent as a shark-like grin formed on his lips. He was barely standing as it was, his wounds bleeding and his muscles screaming in protest as he moved onwards towards his target, his back ached and Squalo was positive that when he got back, his arm was going to need stitching immediately. He was exhausted, those few little movements he was making towards the man sprawled out on the wet ground draining every last bit of his remaining energy. But he wouldn't let his opponent see that, his pride wouldn't allow it.

So he ignored the rain pouring down on his head, completely soaking him to the bone and moved on towards the man. He was such a pitiful sight really, lying in a pool of his own blood, not quite realizing that he was about to die as he slipped in and out of consciousness, his eyes clouded with pain.

It was a cold, dark night, truly one of those nights that belonged in a horror movie. And Squalo fit right in, the black leather of his uniform coat stained with warm blood, a sadistic glint in his eyes as he smirked at his fallen opponent. He had been exceptionally good with his sword, just not good enough to save his life. It was pitiful how a strong man like him had been reduced to... _this_.

Squalo's footsteps couldn't be heard as he stepped through the mud due to the heavy rain, the man didn't show any sign of noticing the younger man standing over him either. Though, the Varia hitman reasoned, in the state he was in right now, he probably wouldn't acknowledge pretty much anything.

It took a tremendous amount of effort to do so with how spent he was, but Squalo didn't let that stop him as he raised his sword one last time, _and delivered the fatal blow_.

Thunder and lightning clashed behind him, but the Varia's swordsman took no notice of it as the cocky grin returned to his lips.

_And that made a total of 73, _Squalo thought as he slumped on the ground, only vaguely aware of Lussuria running over to him with that ridiculous pink umbrella of his held over his weird-ass colorful hair, ready to offer some first aid to his fellow assassin now that he was sure Squalo wouldn't resist, _he was one step closer to becoming the sword emperor._

* * *

**L****ussuria**

Lussuria sighed as he looked around him, his eyes taking in the once lavish living room he and his teammate were standing in. Almost nothing was left standing, the furniture was destroyed and there was blood everywhere. The walls, the floors, the bodies lying all around the two assassins... all of them were covered in blood.

His gaze wandered over to Belphegor, staying focused on him for a moment or two as he watched the younger assassin grin to himself and babble nonsense, the warm blood of his enemies soaking his uniform, but he didn't seem to mind that much. At the moment, Prince The Ripper was far too lost in his killing-induced euphoria to give a damn about his clothes. The poor man beneath him was long dead, but that did not stop Bel from slashing him open with his knives, staring in wonder and grinning sadistically as the man's nerves still twitched whenever he inserted a silver knife.

It was quite a horrible sight, and personally, Lussuria preferred it when their kills didn't leave behind too much blood and gore. That horrible stench stuck to your clothes and dried blood was almost impossible to scrub off, as a very fashion-conscious person, Lussuria tried to keep his kills as clean as possible.

But the avoidance of staining new Armani shirts or expensive Gucci shoes was only _half _of the reason the hitman liked clean kills.

There was, in his opinion, nothing more attractive than the cold, unmoving bodies of the enemies he had just defeated. The more of a challenge they had been while alive (though, being Varia quality, he did not come across such opponents often), the more _alluring_ they were after being smashed and broken.

Even if no one else seemed to agree with him, to Lussuria, there was just no better thing than being able to see the work he had caused first hand, the beauty his perfect Muay Thai had created. Bel liked admiring his victims after he was done with them as well sometimes, but it was not the same thing. Belphegor loved the blood, he loved the pain he had caused, many times, there wasn't even a body left to 'admire' anymore, just body parts scattered around a blood-filled room.

Lussuria didn't like blood, in his opinion blood took the beauty out of things. Blood smelled bad and it was sticky, there was nothing attractive to a body covered in that horrible substance. Nothing beautiful. Nothing desirable.

Sighing once more, the older hitman turned to the ripper prince again. The boy (for a seventeen year-old could hardly qualify as a man yet) was still mutilating the same man he had been carving up a few minutes ago, looking every bit the deranged madman he was as he giggled childishly.

"Come on, Bel-chan." It was quite enough, Lussuria decided. "We should get going before someone notifies the police."

"Ushishi, _killjoy_~" The young prince snickered, taking a moment to wipe his blades off on the dead man's coat before turning to look at Lussuria. "Well, the prince has had his fun anyway..." He shrugged as he got up, nonchalantly starting to make his way towards the doorway, as if he had not just tortured and killed a family of five.

There was nothing beautiful about the way the two children, their parents and grandmother lay broken and bloody on the ground Lussuria decided. Nothing at all.

* * *

**Belphegor**

Bel was a prince. A real prince with countless riches, a big kingdom, a castle and a _crown_. And he would rip apart any peasant that dared say otherwise. Because he _was _a prince. And not just any flimsy little prince either.

Belphegor was _Prince The Ripper._ He was only sixteen years old, and yet he was one of the mafia's most feared assassins. He was a battle genius, the best of them all. As far as he was concerned there was no one in this entire world that could beat him. _Because Bel was the prince. _And though a blood-happy psychopath might not be the conventional idea of a prince for most people, who the fuck cared? He was so much better than all that silly "prince charming" crap. And Belphegor knew it.

After all, could Cinderella's prince have killed a man three times his size while he was injured? Could Snowhite's prince have eliminated a whole mafia famiglia single-handedly in one night? Could that stupid man Ariel married have slaughtered every single member of his family... and enjoyed it? Laugh as he stood above his twin brother's corpse? Taunt his father when he was unable to fight off a mere eight-year old?

He didn't think so. Because those were just silly fairy tale characters, and that wasn't how the world worked.

Yes, most princes and princesses didn't join assassination squads at the age of eight because they simply couldn't get enough of the thrill of killing, even in the real world where not everything was rainbows and cute little kittens. But he wasn't like most princes, was he?

And that exactly was what made him _the_ prince, and not just _a _prince.

Sloth had by many been characterized as the most lethal sin of the seven, defined by apathy for others. Belphegor, it would seem, was the perfect personalization of that.

Unless it somehow involved killing, maiming or possibly torturing some poor soul (it didn't even matter _who_, as long as Bel got his enjoyment from it) the Varia's storm guardian could always be counted on to be a lazy ass. And when Squalo came by and screamed at him to get the fuck up and do something productive, the answer would always be the same.

"I'm the prince, so I don't have to. Princes don't do peasant work." Usually accompanied by one of his famous snickers.

But when the opportunity arose, and those yellowing manila folders were delivered to him by some nameless Varia underling, he could never stop the grin from spreading across his lips.

He loved missions.

Because missions meant killing.

Killing meant blood.

And blood... Bel simply loved blood.

_Bloody Bel, bloody heaven, bloody hell._

And the screams... oh yes...

_Screams were the BGM._

Ushishi~

* * *

**Gola Mosca**

Gola Mosca... didn't have an opinion. It was a machine for god's sake.

It just did what it was programmed to do, all the while devouring dying will flames.

Devouring. Devouring. Devouring. Devouring.

Until nothing was left.

No dying will.

No flame.

Just a corpse. Cold and motionless, without a life.

And then it would need a new 'battery'.

So it could feed. Devour. Destroy. Kill.

But it didn't mind of course. Because Gola Mosca was a machine.

* * *

**Leviathan**

In Leviathan's eyes, Xanxus was God.

He was strong, and he was feared by everyone. He was the almighty god that ruled over them all with an iron fist, and if even one of them dared to do as much as step even a toe out of line they would be devoured by the boss's furious flames of wrath. In Levi's eyes there was no one that could ever come even remotely close to being as great, amazing and downright awesome as Xanxus was.

Whatever his boss said, Levi took it to heart. He even wrote some stuff down in this little book of his that he later named his "memorable things Xanxus-sama said" book.

Whenever something was amiss, Levi was always the first one to run out in the freezing cold or extreme heat to get it for Xanxus.

No matter what, Levi always tried his very best to impress his boss one way or the other.

The only thing the Varia's thunder guardian didn't seem to understand was that his hopeless pleas for praise and attention fell on deaf ears, because really, Xanxus didn't care about pretty much anything if it didn't somehow involve his steak, or wine.

It had always been like that, and Levi just told himself to bear with it. No one got special treatment from Xanxus, not even that spoiled self-proclaimed 'prince' that had joined their ranks recently. The young royal was by far the youngest of them all (Mammon, being an arcobaleno, didn't count) but that did not mean that Belphegor was one to be intimidated. He never listened to anyone but Mammon (he seemed to have taken a liking to the mist guardian ever since he laid eyes on the baby) and the boss himself, going out of his way to make other people's lives hard. He seemed to love bugging Squalo but when it came right down to it, the two of them made a fearful pair and he seemed to at least acknowledge the teen's talent in sword fights. When it came to Levi, on the other hand, the child seemed to express nothing but contempt towards him. It was really frustrating, not to mention embarrassing, that someone seven years his junior should look down on him as if _he_ were the ignorant child.

But there was no denying it, Levi had seen first hand just how much of a genius Belphegor was, all of the Varia had. And as horrible as it was to admit it, even at the age of eight, the little devil child could easily talk about stuff and understand the meaning of things it took Levi ages to figure out.

Even though he would never admit it, Levi was jealous of Belphegor's genius mind sometimes. But the boss didn't favour the blonde child over the others for it, so really, he didn't mind it that much.

It was when his eyes found the pale silver-haired teenager that his chest burned with true hatred, for if there was one person Levi could without doubt say he hated to the very core of his being, it _had _to be their squad's loud 14-year-old swordsman, Superbi Squalo.

Granted, he was very good at what he did (obviously, or he would not be in the Varia) but Levi swore that sometimes that ego of his, that annoying pride he seemed to never be seen without, made him want to smash the teen's head in. He was a whole year younger than him and yet, just like that Belphegor kid, he did not seem to have a single ounce of respect for him.

But really, when it came to himself, Levi would be willing to overlook it. It was when that unspeakable insolence was turned towards their _boss_ however, that the 15-year-old could not help but want to kill the younger boy.

And the worst was, that even when those screams and insults were turned towards Xanxus-sama, even when he called him a "annoying bastard" and an "idiot boss", the worst he ever got was a wine glass to the head, or the occasional fall out of the window.

Had it been anyone else, they'd surely be killed on the spot. Burnt to crisp for their insolence. Gone, just like that.

And yet, Squalo was still alive. Something about him, made the boss not kill him each and every time they had a fight (and that was indeed often). And for that Levi hated him.

He hated Superbi Squalo for being Xanxus-sama's favourite without even trying.

He hated the fact that it couldn't be him.

He hated the fact that he envied the 14-year-old boy, and would go on envying him for the rest of his life.

* * *

**Xanxus**

Anger.

That was all Xanxus could feel as he stared at the words written in the ninth's journal, his red eyes narrowed, his hands shaking in barely contained fury. Letting out an angry growl, he threw the journal against the wall, flipping over the desk in front of him and smashing the pictures that fell off.

He shot them, just for good measure.

_That fucking asshole._

He had lied to him. His whole fucking life, that bastard had told him nothing but lies. He was never going to be the tenth. He was never going to rule the Vongola. And that fucking trash had know it.

He had known it all along. He had lied to both him and his mother. Had probably laughed as Xanxus trained. _Knowing_. Knowing that he could never become more than a fucking underling to the real tenth.

It made him go blind with fury. It made him want to just burn down the whole fucking mansion and everyone inside it.

Turn them to ashes. Make them regret ever having tricked him.

But that wouldn't help. No. The bastard would be able to survive that. He wasn't that weak of a shit.

Xanxus would gather men first. He had heard of a swordsman that recently beat the Varia's Tyr... yes, he'd start there... he'd build up a squad of merciless killers. And when the time was right...

The ninth wouldn't know what hit him.

_Xanxus would get his **revenge.**_


End file.
